Banewreaker (5 page)

Tanaros sighed, and turned his horse toward home.

LINDANEN DALE HELD THEM LIKE a cupped hand, green and inviting. It was ringed with stalwart oaks that stood like sentries, their leaves not yet fully fledged. In the distance, Cerelinde could hear the Aven River, a sound evocative of Meronil and home. Overhead, the sky was clear and blue, Haomane's sun shining upon them like a blessing.

"What think you, my lady?" Aracus smiled at her. He sat at ease on his mount, one of the Borderguard, his second-in-command, a half pace behind him. Sunlight made his hair blaze, copper threaded with gold. "Your kinsmen and mine once met to take counsel in this place, when Altoria ruled the west."

"Then it is fitting." Cerelinde smiled back at him. "I would fain wed in a place of such beauty."

"Duke Bornin of Seahold has pledged a company," he said. "It will be witnessed by Men and Ellylon, that all may know what we do."

A shadow passed over the greensward. Aracus shaded his eyes with one hand, gazing at the sky. It was limpid and blue, empty. Amid the oaks, a raven's hoarse call sounded once, then was silent.

"This is not without risk," Cerelinde said quietly.

"No." He glanced at her. "But it must be witnessed, Cerelinde. It must be done openly. Haomane's Prophecy will never be fulfilled unless we fire the hearts and minds of Men. Is Lord Ingolin willing to admit hundreds upon hundreds of us to Meronil?"

She shook her head. "You know he is not. Our magic has grown weak in this Sundered World. The wards would not hold. We must be able to defend our last stronghold."

"Here, then." His smile returned. "We will put our faith in mortal steel."

Cerelinde inclined her head, turning in the saddle to address Aracus' companion. "I do not doubt my lord Blaise is capable," she said.

The two Men exchanged an uneasy glance.

Cerelinde raised her brows. "Will you not be in attendance?"

Blaise Caveros bowed briefly in the saddle. "Lady, forgive me, but I will not."

She studied his face. He returned her regard steadily, his dark gaze haunted by the shadow of his lineage. Once upon a time, his distant kinsman Tanaros Caveros had served as second-in-command to a scion of the House of Altorus; served and betrayed, becoming one of the Three. The enormity of his betrayal had tainted the name of all who bore it, and all their descendants thereafter. Aracus had been the first in a thousand years to set aside the ancient mistrust the Caveros name engendered, and Blaise was willing to spend his lifetime in atonement for his ancestor's sin. His loyalty was fierce, defiant and beyond question, and Aracus would never spare him unless grave doings were afoot.

"What," she asked, "is Malthus plotting?"

"Cerelinde." Aracus leaned over to touch her arm. "Nothing is certain and much is yet unknown. I pray you, ask me no questions I cannot answer. Malthus has bidden me keep his counsel, at least until we are wed."

"Even from me?" Anger stirred in her. "Am I not the Lady of the Ellylon? Does the Wise Counselor find even me unworthy of his trust?"

"No." It was Blaise who answered, shaking his head. "Lady, I know not where I am bound, nor does Aracus. It is Malthus who asks that we trust him."

"Malthus." Cerelinde sighed. "Haomane's Weapon keeps his counsel close; too close, perhaps. Haomane's Children do not like being kept in ignorance."

"It is for a short time only, my lady. Malthus knows what he is about." Aracus gazed at her. His eyes were a stormy blue, open and earnest, filled with all the passion of his belief. "Will you not abide?"

Cerelinde thought about all they risked, and the pain both of them would suffer. Time would claim him, leaving her untouched. There would be pain enough to spare, and no need to inflict more upon them, here and now, at the beginning. For the sake of what brief happiness was theirs to claim, she was willing to set aside her pride.

"So be it," she said. "I will abide."

THE EDIFICE OF DARKHAVEN EMBRACED the whole of the Vale of Gorgantum.

The fortress itself loomed at the center, black and gleaming, veined throughout with the marrow-fire. Its steep walls and immaculate lines had a stark beauty, tempered here and there with an unexpected turret, a hidden garden, an elaborate gable. To the west rose the Tower of the Observatory, where Satoris had met with the Three. In the east, there arose the Tower of Ravens, seldom used, though to good effect.

Between and below lay the Chamber of the Font, and Godslayer, where Lord Satoris dwelt.

Deeper still lay the Source.

Of
that
, one did not speak.

Tanaros had been there, in the Chamber of the Font. He had beheld Godslayer, pulsing like a heart in the blue-white flames. And he had knelt, gasping his allegiance, while the Lord Satoris had reached into the marrow-fire and taken Godslayer for his own, reversing the dagger, the Shard of the Souma, and planting its hilt above Tanaros' heart, searing his mortal flesh.

What lay beneath the Font?

The Source.

One did not speak of that which might be extinguished.

And from the Source at its center, Darkhaven spiraled outward to encompass the Vale entire, a double spiral with the two Towers as opposite poles. At its outermost perimeter, black walls coiled up the mountainsides, here and there punctuated by sentry posts, lit with watch-fires emerging visible in the dusk. There, to the east, a gap where the watch-towers flanked the Defile, their signal fires burning low and steady. Tanaros noted them as he rode, numbering them like a merchant counting coin. All was as it should be in the realm of Lord Satoris.

Inside the inner walls of the sanctuary, Tanaros made his way to the stables, dismounting with a groan. He had grown stiff in the saddle, stiff in the service of his Lord. A young stablehand came for the stallion, shadowy and deft, eyes gleaming behind the thatch of his forelock. One of Ushahin's madlings. The lad bobbed a crooked bow, then crooned to the stallion. It arched its neck, flaring its nostrils and huffing in gentle response.

"You needn't walk him long," Tanaros said in the common tongue, laying a hand on the stallion's glossy hide and finding it cool. "He's had his ease since the skirmish."

The madling sketched him a second bow, eyes bright with knowing.

What did he hear, Tanaros wondered; what did he understand? One never knew, with the Dreamspinner's foundlings. This one understood the common tongue, of that he was sure. Most of them did. A few did not. The madling led his mount away, still crooning; the stallion bent his head as if to listen, sleek black hide rippling under the light of the emerging stars. This one, Tanaros thought, loved horses. So much he knew, and no more. Only Ushahin, who walked in their dreams, knew them all.

With stiff fingers, Tanaros unbuckled his helm and approached the postern gate.

"General Tanaros!" The pair of Fjeltroll on duty saluted smartly, slapping the butts of their spears on the marble stair. "We heard the exercise went well," one added cunningly. "Too bad the Havenguard weren't there, eh?"

Pulling off his helm and tucking it under his arm, Tanaros smiled at the ploy. "I'll match Lord Vorax's offer, lads. A measure of
svartblod
to all who stood duty, and see it sent round to the lads on the wall, a full skin to each sentry-post. Send word to the quartermaster that it's on my orders."

They cheered at that, standing aside to let him pass. In some ways, the Fjel were like children, simple and easy to please. Loyalty was given, and loyalty was rewarded. No more could be asked, no more could answer.

Indeed, Tanaros thought as he entered Darkhaven proper, what more is there? He ran his hand through his dark hair, damp with sweat from confinement in his padded helm. Once, he had given his loyalty for the asking. Given it to Roscus Altorus, blood-sworn comrade and liege-lord, he of the red-gold hair and ready grin, the extended hand.

Given it to Calista, his wife, whose throat was white like the swan's, whose doe-eyes had bulged at the end, beseeching him;
oh love, forgive me, forgive me
!

Wary madlings skittered along the hallways, scattering at his passage, reforming behind to trail in his wake. Tanaros, lost in his memories, swung his helm from its leather strap and ignored them. There was food cooking in the great kitchens of Darkhaven, its savory odor teasing the hallways. He ignored that, too. They would serve the barracks, bringing platter upon platter heaped high with mutton, steaming in grey slabs. What Lord Vorax demanded in his quarters was anyone's guess. Tanaros did not care.

Fjeltroll mate for life, Hyrgolf had told him. Always.

He thought about that, sometimes.

"Lord General, Lord General!"

A lone madling, more daring than the rest, accosted him at the doors to his quarters. Tangled hair falling over her face, peering where her work-reddened hands pushed it away to reveal a darting eye.

"Yes, Meara?" Tanaros knew her, made his voice gentle.

She cringed nonetheless, then flexed, arching the lines of her body. "Lord General," she asked with satisfaction, "will you dine this evening? There is mutton and tubers, and Lord Vorax ordered wine from Pelmar."

The madlings behind her sighed, envying her boldness.

"That would be pleasant," he said, inclining his head. "Thank you."

"Tubers!" cried one of the madlings, a hulking figure with a guileless boy's eyes in a man's homely face, hopping up and down. "Tubers!"

Meara simpered, tossing her tangled hair. "I will bring a tray, Lord General."

"Thank you, Meara," he said gravely.

In a rush they left him, following now in Meara's wake, their voices whispering from the walls. Left in peace, Tanaros entered his own quarters.

It was quiet here, in the vast rooms he inhabited. A few lamps burned low, flickering on the gleaming black walls and picking out veins of marrow-fire. Tanaros turned up the wicks until the warm illumination offset the blue-white glimmer of the marrow-fire, lending a human touch to his quarters. Thick Rukhari carpets muffled his footsteps, their intricately woven patterns muted by lamplight. One of his few concessions to luxury. He undid the buckles on his corselet, removed his armor piece by piece, awkward without assistance, hanging it upon its stand. Sitting on a low stool, Tanaros sighed, tugging off his boots, the point of his scabbard catching on the carpet as he bent, the sword's hilt digging into his side.

War. It means war.

Standing and straightening, Tanaros unbuckled his swordbelt. He held it in his hands, bowing his head. Even sheathed, he felt the blade's power, the scar over his heart aching at it. Black it was, that blade, tempered in the marrow-fire and quenched in the ichor of Satoris himself. It was the gift he had received at the pact of his branding, and it had no equal.

Tanaros Blacksword, he thought, and placed the weapon in its stand.

Without it, he felt naked.

There was a scratching at the door. Padding in stocking feet across the carpets, Tanaros opened it. The madling Meara cringed, then proffered a silver tray, other madlings peeping from behind her. Fragrant aromas seeped from beneath the covered dishes.

"Thank you, Meara," he said to her. "Put it on the table, please."

Hunched over her burden, she slunk into the room, setting the gleaming tray on the ebony dining-table with a clatter. Triumphant, she straightened, beckoning to the others. Whispering to one another, they crept into his quarters like shadows, taking with reverent hands his dusty, sweated armor, his dirty boots. In the morning these would be returned, polished and gleaming, the buckles cleaned of grime, straps fresh-oiled, boots buffed to a high gloss.

Tanaros, who had beheld this drama many, many times over, watched with pity. "No," he said gently when one, scarce more than a lad, reached for the black sword. "That I tend myself."

"I touch?" The boy threw him a hopeful glance.

"You may touch it in its scabbard, see?" The Commander General of the Army of Darkhaven went to one knee beside the madling lad, guiding his trembling hand. "There."

The boy's fingers touched the scabbard and he groaned deep in his throat, his mouth soft with ecstasy. "My Lord! My Lord's blood!"

"Yes," Tanaros said softly, as he had done many times before, with this lad and others. "It was tempered in the marrow-fire, and cooled in his blood."

The madling cradled the hand that had touched it. "His blood!" he crowed.

"His blood," Tanaros agreed, rising to his feet, knee-joints popping at the effort. Always, it was so; the young men, the youths, drawn to the blade.

"Enough!" Emboldened by the success of her mission, Meara put her hands upon her hips, surveying Tanaros' quarters, finding nothing amiss. "Will you want a bath, Lord General?"

"Later," Tanaros said. The odor of mutton roast teased the air and his stomach rumbled at it. "Later will suffice."

She gave a firm nod. "Ludo will bring it."

"Thank you, Meara." Tanaros made her a courtly half-bow. She shuddered, a rictus contorting her face, then whirled, summoning the others.

"Come! You and you, and you. Algar, pick up the Lord General's greaves. Come, quickly, and let the Lord General eat!"

Tanaros watched them go, hurrying under Meara's command, laden with their burdens. Where did Ushahin find them? The unwanted, the misbegotten, the castoffs of Urulat. Damaged at birth, many of them�slow, simple, ill-formed. Others, the world had damaged; the world, and the cruelty of Men and the Lesser Shapers. Beaten by jealous lovers, shaken by angry parents, ravaged by conquest, they were victims of life, of circumstance or simple accident, fallen and half-drowned, until wits were addled or sanity snapped like a fine thread and darkness clouded their thoughts.

No wonder Ushahin Dreamspinner loved them.

And in their dreams, he summoned them, calling them to sanctuary in Darkhaven. All through the ages, they had come; singly, in pairs, in groups. In this place, they were sacrosanct. Lord Satoris had decreed it so, long, long ago, upon the day Ushahin had sworn the allegiance of his branding. No one was to harm them, upon pain of death.